For some reason, though I have not exercised for a week, imbibed of the boose enough on Saturday to make yours truly as bombed as a Kohls-smeared14-year-old: you have seen them in that "first time drunk psychedelic blowout": insult adults, pee-the-pants, eat a cigarette or four, tell five people she loves them 19 times, get her stomach pumped and shipped off to Deerfield Academy---(hey, "I wasn't driving")-----shit, where was I before I started pruning that nonsense? Reading the sentence over, I hardly sound contrite.
In any event, I should still be lethargic, I should be sitting on the couch in my cable-free, (still) rented(ing, I am 30, mind you) place, I should be whining that it is all so hard.
But it ain't.
And I ain't.
The last two days I have (I know, I know, I know) really restricted my calories-----stupidly low (I know, I know, I know, but the shaving cream I shaved with today cost $35 so you see the relevance brain power really has to me these days).
The drop in my food intake is done purposefully-----if I intend to drop body fat, I need to use it. (I am trying to regain balance through discipline.)
And, apparently, I am using it. I was able to put one foot, two feet, and the rest of me out for approximately 6.4 (did not bring the Timex GPS nerd alert device with me on this) under a mile. Were there hills?
Fuck yeah, there were hills. Was there energy? Fuck yeah, there was. I came home, and am curently enveloped in a haze of acetone/ammonia (almost failed chem, don't care what it is). CdG during the day to have eyes linger over me longingly, acetone at night to make sure they call the police about the drunk man in running clothes smiling to himself like Manson)....the point being: I pushed myself.
And I fucking won today. No matter what else happened, I came close to the point, poison in my lungs, bright lights in my eyes, an evil waiting for my sweaty self just beyond the point of death or glory....and I passed it (at around 4 miles) and I could feel my senses sharpen, and my reason return. My goal setting, rational, Promethean fire in my brain returned, and said, "you fucking prick, what the fuck did you spend your weekend like that for? I am thinking of moving to LA, so if you want to come, get good looking and start treating me right."
I have done this before, and know how it is done........and it is not fucking easy. I must stay determined, though that is always bandied around. The fact is, I have the tools, but hand myself over (to) Andover again to receive his proper way of rogering me mercilessly with sloth. Feck off, Colonel Andover.
I am currently at 19% BF, the fat little git that I am. (150lbs) so I probably could stand to miss a meal or two and get some early morning empty stomach runs in, unless the whole lazy thing creeps up again. christ, don't worry, it will....
Came home, punched out sets of push ups and burpees....but then I felt sick, and decided the civilized call of laundry may benefit me more tomorrow at my j-o-b, where the culture seems to center around such high ideals. It matches all the vapid golf talk, doubled chins, and the sitting. Such wonderful sitting! All. Day. Long.
So, tomorrow, I will advance to the jim and mix in some pulling exercises, dips, and the filthy pool.
If you happen by this page, and want to offer any calisthenic workouts-----please. I know the steps, I just need some new records to dance to, so to speak. Hellfire. I want a calisthenics routine where I question where my life turned left, and that no one is watching, so I can quick anytime.....I want a calisthenics routine that may make me feel, for once, happy to be alive.
But one that will make me think I am going insane. something hallucinatory.
Something Psycho.
If you have one that works, let me know. Please?
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